Happy Rosé Season, You Basic Betches
Well people, the time has come. It is upon us. The sun is shining, people have stopped following socially acceptable guidelines for dressing in public, I am a giant pool of sweat the majority of time, and.... it's rosé season. Congratulations, bitches. We made it. This is our moment.
One might argue (and to be completely transparent, I am one that might argue this) that every season is rosé to which I say an enthusiastic you are fucking right, my dude. But I would also like to point out that rosé is not as delightful on a dark winters eve as it is in the middle of a summer day when you've just gotten off work and guacamole reigns supreme. It would be like if you tried to drink a Pumpkin Spice Latte in the middle of July. Would you be a true basic? Absolutely, yes. Would it be pleasant? Honestly, probably not.
Rosé is the cool girl of wines.
I recently learned, and feel free to make fun of me here, that rosé is not just white wine mixed with red wine. Rosé apparently is an art form. Also, according to a multitude of questions internet sources, rosé might in fact be the oldest type of wine. I know, mind blown. As an avid drinker, it would be fair to assume that my ass was not completely ignorant and had already known this. Ha! What do you think I am, some kind of wine expert? I still buy mine based on which has the prettiest label because... Instagram. And because I'm frugal. If it's under $20 and the label looks like it was pulled from Etsy, I'm buyin'.
Just the other day (while drinking a rosé slushie, which is fucking great btw) I tried to recall the exact moment that rosé stormed its way onto my radar. I couldn't. Like some alien lifeform, rosé slowly crept into my life (all of our lives?), attached itself to all that is well and good in the world, and has completely taken over our summers. Am I mad? No. Am I a bit confused? Perhaps. Will I be switching to beer anytime soon? Lol. It's an obsession that grows stronger with time and knows no end. I strongly believe that it is only a matter of time until restaurants start featuring more than one variety of rosé on their menus. That time is coming. I can feel lit.
But when, I asked myself, did we all collectively become such fans of rosé? When did rosé cement itself as the preferred summer beverage for basic women like myself? The women who still secretly (or not so secretly) watch Gossip Girl, who live in an endless search of the perfect happy hour patio, who are connoisseurs of avocado toast, and who proudly stand behind the gospel that is Pilates? When did this become our elixir, our lifeline, our liquid war-cry uniting us across the globe?
The weekend of our wedding my lovely step-mom approached me in a panic. She had ordered champagne but some of it had accidentally been replaced by - gasp - sparking rosé! Was I mad? Was this going to be the bridezilla moment we had all been waiting for? Hell to the no. It felt, instead, like the wedding gods were beaming down on me to make our day even more perfect than I had imagined. It was a heavenly, rosé-colored-flasses filled day.
The time has come, betches. Now we celebrate. Happy rosé season.
Stay basic my betches,
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